


full with fiery wonder

by vlieger



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>crossdressing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	full with fiery wonder

"Rafa?" Roger ducks his head, peering through the shadows. "Is that-- oh." He squints, stepping closer without realising, and says, "Oh," again, biting down on his lip. 

Rafa's eyes are wide, a little hunted, and it's harder in the dark to see the sooty black lines edged around their shape, but not impossible, and the slightly dimmed, used-looking red on his lips certainly isn't, all the darker against his skin in what little light there is beneath the deserted side of the hotel.

Roger opens his mouth and closes it again, shoves his hands awkwardly, uselessly into his pockets.

"We going inside," says Rafa at last, not questioning but a little hesitant. 

"I," says Roger, blinking, "Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure."

Rafa nods, following Roger into the sudden blinding, bright light behind one of the service entrances. He's holding one arm across his front, tense and stiff, and scrubbing at his mouth with his free hand. Roger can see the lipstick smeared across the skin when he lets it drop to his side. 

"I going out," Rafa says into the silence. He tosses his head, an unconscious little restless movement, and adds, looking away, "No one is knowing me there." Then he looks back and doesn't say anything more, but his chin is tilted upwards defiantly, and it should look ridiculous, but there's something so intrinsically strong about his features, the line of his jaw and the prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, eyes dark. Roger can see imperfections in his makeup he hadn't noticed before, in this fluorescent, unshadowed lighting: the way it fades, a little patchy, into the soft, pale stretch of his throat, the way the kohl is smudged about his eyes. His cheeks are overly pink, too, the damp flush tinging his cheekbones mingling with the makeup sweeping along their path. Roger swallows. 

"I don't mind," he says softly. "Really, it's." He shrugs. "None of my business. I'm not going to tell."

"Okay," says Rafa.

Roger nods, silent. Rafa's still watching him. "Okay," he echoes, finally. "I'll see you on Sunday, Rafa."

 

He doesn't think about it at all during the final. Which he isn't entirely sure is a good thing, considering the result, but it doesn't cross his mind in any case, not until Rafa slings an arm over his shoulder and ducks in close, smiling, and Roger glances over at the way it dimples his cheeks, creasing about his eyes, and thinks that his skin really is nicer without all the foundation, his dusting of freckles more visible, more intimate and imperfect. It's. It's easier than thinking about what's just happened, the match, anyway. He swallows past the tightness in his throat, scrubs the back of his hand across his eyes and decides, though, that there was something kind of beautiful about the eyeliner, the way the dark smoky lines were smudged across his dampened skin like it was somewhat clumsily applied, evened out by the tips of too-large fingers.

Rafa says, while they're still out on Centre Court, posing for pictures, "We having lunch before leaving, si?"

Roger nods, tightening his hold on the unfamiliar plate, the edges cutting into his palm, and says, "Sure, yeah, sounds good."

He blinks as a camera's flash catches him full in the eye, and for a moment he can't see, nothing but the clamour of the crowd and Rafa's hand, warm and damp, on his elbow.

 

Rafa watches him over the table when they meet for lunch, fingers restless over the rim of his glass. It's this mundane little thing Roger's always found fascinating, his constant fidgeting, resettling his feet when he's receiving out on court or reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ears, always moving, hands fluttering. Roger supposes the fascination is something to do with his contrasting search for stillness, for perfect poise and space to breathe. 

"You no angry about the match?" Rafa asks quietly. 

"Of course not," says Roger. He tilts his head, considering. "Not at you, anyway. You played incredible."

Rafa hitches a half-smile and ducks his head. His hair falls from behind his ear and Roger watches him reach up automatically to push it back. "You too," he says. 

Roger shrugs and looks away. 

"You angry about the," Rafa says after a silence, "About other night?"

Roger snaps his gaze up. "Of course not," he repeats. "Why would I be angry? That's, no. No." He shakes his head. 

"Okay." Rafa smiles again, a little wider, although he doesn't quite meet Roger’s eyes. 

"Rafa, seriously." Roger leans forward a little, hands folded over the edge of the table. It curves softly into his palms, not like the metal of the runner-up plate. Those dents stayed red on his skin for a long time afterwards, a sharp little sting every time he flexed his fingers. "You don't have to explain."

"I knowing," says Rafa. His cheeks are a little pink, high-up along the bones. "But we friends, no? Is good to checking you no angry."

"Yeah," says Roger. He leans back. "We're friends. So you know I'd never be angry."

Rafa turns his head, peering through the restaurant window overlooking the street. The light hits his profile from behind, silhouetting him against the glass, and Roger watches his throat work as he swallows, remembers how it looked that night, bare and pale, sweeping from the proud jut of his chin to the centre of his collarbones. His cheeks are flushed and he doesn't say anything, but his smile is soft and easy, happy. Roger breathes out; a long, lightening exhale.

 

Roger doesn't see him again until Madrid, meeting up for a quick coffee after the quarters. Rafa says, "I seeing you in the final, si?"

Roger raises an eyebrow, swallowing a grin. "Don't get too confident," he says. "Novak's very good."

Rafa widens his eyes dramatically. "I no knowing this," he says, leaning forward. 

"I didn't think so." Roger smirks, reaching out to flick at Rafa's hair. They're very close across the table, heads bent together, and Roger can't help but notice the dark sweep of Rafa’s eyelashes, curving away from the impish gleam in his eyes, thick and a little clumped, like he's added just a tiny hint of mascara. 

"Is not nice," Rafa says, slumping back in his chair. There's a heartbeat of silence, a little pause where he narrows his eyes and twists his mouth like maybe he knows Roger's seen, and then he adds, smile widening, "Everyone thinking you so nice, never saying bad things, but I know truth."

"I am nice," says Roger haughtily, crossing his arms. 

Rafa snorts, mirroring Roger's gesture, his shirt creasing beneath the pressure of his arms. 

Roger realises abruptly that it's the same thin white t-shirt he was wearing two nights before the final in Melbourne, or at least something very similar. Rafa wears it well, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, folding loose, but not too loose, over his chest, and it's so worn that Roger can see the faint golden hint of skin everywhere he looks. He remembers how damp it looked that night, like it'd been smothered under something heavy, maybe a dress, red, to go with his lips, or-- Roger chokes a little.

It must show on his face, because Rafa raises an eyebrow at him, says, "You okay?"

"Fine," says Roger. He pulls his drink towards himself and waves a hand. 

Rafa tilts his head, his hair dropping into his eyes, and Roger thinks how much he likes that, the careless, messily graceful ease about everything he does. 

"So," he says, grasping at a subject change, a smooth, unaltered voice, "How’s your knee?"

"Is okay," says Rafa after a pause. He looks a little too curious, a little too shrewd. "We thinking is maybe worse than really is, but okay for now. Good."

Roger nods. "I'm glad," he says, smiling across the table. It's strange, really, how Rafa makes everything so easy and not, all at once. 

Rafa smiles back and says, "Me too. I can beating you in final again, si?"

"Sure," says Roger, kicking him beneath the table. "Whatever you say."

 

Roger texts him after the semis, smiling, says, _I told you so._

Rafa's reply is almost instant: _no, i tell you. i still wining._

 _I saw,_ says Roger, thumbs moving quick and practised over the keypad. _You did really well._

 _well enough to beat you in final,_ is Rafa's answer. Roger can see the mischievous smile. 

_Never,_ says Roger. _I would tell you to get some rest, but that wouldn't help me, so don't go to sleep._

There’s a pause of several minutes before Rafa sends another message. He says, _you too late, already in bed. good night, roger._

 _Good night. See you tomorrow,_ is Roger's somewhat useless reply. 

 

Rafa stands close after the final, same as always, arms brushing, all radiating heat, and says, smiling not wide but real, "Is good match."

Roger dips his chin and says, biting back a grin, "I told you. I always tell you, but you never listen."

Rafa huffs a laugh. "Is good thing, no?" He tilts his head, looking at Roger. 

"Yeah," says Roger. He looks down at his trophy and over at Rafa's, and thinks about Paris; thinks, hopes, this year, this year, but says again, soft and sure, "Yeah."

 

The first day in Paris is overcast, all gusty, swirling breezes pushing his hair every which-way out on the practice court. It's still kind of nice, in the very early morning: few people about, the burnt orange clay and the soft grey clouds not dark enough to threaten any real rain. The pressure feels not quite so overwhelming in these moments, hitting easy, swinging balls without anyone watching, no cameras, nothing. 

"Is nice day," Rafa calls from the sidelines, mid service-motion. Roger doesn't falter, firing an inch-perfect serve into the corner of the box and turning to grin at Rafa. 

"You're terrible at trying to distract me," he says, juggling a ball on his racket. 

Rafa shrugs, mouth crooked, smiling, his hair all feathery curls brushing light against the skin on his neck. "Is no needing to distract you, si? Beating you anyway." He bites down on his lip, grin threatening to split.

Roger rolls his eyes, walking slowly towards Rafa. "We'll see, won’t we," he says. And then, stepping closer, "You have, uh."

Rafa blinks, mouth open, and says, "What?"

"Just." Roger reaches up, glancing over Rafa's shoulder at the empty adjoining court, and pulls his thumb over the dark spot of makeup clinging to where the thin skin is stretched over the hollow of Rafa's eye, right near the corner. It comes off easily enough, soft beneath his fingers. 

"Oh," says Rafa quietly. 

"It wasn't noticeable," Roger says, shrugging, "At all. I just." He stops. 

"No," says Rafa, nodding quickly. "No, is good." He smiles and steps away. "I go practice."

"Rafa," says Roger. 

Rafa pauses, fingers curling and uncurling around the strap of his bag.

"I didn't mean to-- " Roger shakes his head. "Make you uncomfortable, or-- " He trails off.

"Is not," says Rafa. He steps in close, lifts a hand to lay on Roger's arm. "Is okay, is good." He smiles again, wider this time, and darts his tongue out to wet his lips. Roger sees his eyes, bright through the flutter of his lashes, and swallows but doesn't, can't, look away. 

 

Rafa's sitting on a bench in the locker room after Roger's third round match. 

"Hi," says Roger, dropping his bag and scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

"Hola." Rafa smiles, pushing himself to his feet. He's wearing practice clothes, shorts and a t-shirt, but still clean and relatively creaseless. "I going to practice," he says. 

"Okay," says Roger slowly, nodding. "On Centre Court?"

Rafa rolls his eyes. "Funny," he says dryly. "I coming to say congratulations first."

Roger grins, bending to unzip his bag and rummage through for his change of clothes. "Thank you," he says, glancing up through his hair. 

Rafa nods, silent, chewing on his lip with his head tilted, considering him. 

"Was there-- " Roger straightens, clutching a little stupidly at a pair of sweatpants. "Is everything okay?"

"Si," says Rafa decisively, "Si, is fine." He steps towards Roger, reaching out to splay a light, tentative hand over Roger's side. 

"What," says Roger. 

Rafa leans in and kisses him, quick and dry.

"Oh," says Roger weakly. Rafa's still hovering close, his palm hot through Roger's damp shirt. 

Rafa looks at him, searching, and Roger stares back, not sure what it is Rafa's seeing on his face, but he seems to like whatever's there, hitching a sweet little smile and leaning in again, kissing him harder, deeper, slick and open-mouthed. 

"Rafa," says Roger, soft and muffled, hands coming up to Rafa's sides.

"You looking at me all the time, no?" says Rafa, wet, into his mouth. 

"That's not," says Roger, hands opening and closing over Rafa's hips, "Not because, I mean, I don't-- " He stops, helpless, and Rafa pulls back to look at him.

"You no wanting?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Oh God," says Roger. He palms over the side of his face and swallows, says quietly, clearly, "No, Rafa, I want."

"Okay," says Rafa, leaning in again. 

"But," says Roger desperately. 

Rafa sighs, sliding his mouth away over Roger's cheek, and says, "What."

"Just, you know, it's not because of the, just because of the makeup. It was beautiful, you know, but I-- " He stops again, shaking his head. 

Rafa's mouth twitches. "I no wear makeup now," he says, head tilted. "You still wanting?"

"I. Of course," says Roger, bemused. 

"Okay," says Rafa, smiling properly, wide and white, eyes creased at the corners and bright, laughing. He leans in, tugging gently at Roger's lower lip, and adds, "You so stupid."

"What?" says Roger, half-distracted, half-indignant. 

Rafa waves a hand then lets it drop to settle, warm and heavy, against the small of Roger's back. "You looking at me all the time, long time, before you seeing makeup, no?"

"I." Roger blinks. 

Rafa laughs. "So stupid," he repeats, kissing along Roger's jaw.


End file.
